


In Which Sherlock Loses Control

by The_Sherlocked_Shadow



Series: Accidental Reactions [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Gen, John doesn't know what to say or do or think, Omorashi, Sherlock doesn't exactly know either, Squick, Watersports, bladder desperation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sherlocked_Shadow/pseuds/The_Sherlocked_Shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were three things that Sherlock Holmes hated: needing to sleep, needing to eat, and needing to use the loo. </p><p>Fortunately, he can stave off the first two to an extent.</p><p>The latter, however, can be a lot more pressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Loses Control

**In Which Sherlock Loses Control**

There were many things that Sherlock Holmes did not have the tolerance for.

One was idiots. People like Anderson made Sherlock feel as if his brain cells were imploding by having to even be in the very _presence_ of someone stupid. They were just so hopeless and Sherlock hated their idiocy.

Another thing was sleep. It was necessary for well-being, Sherlock had long ago realised, but it was as annoying as _hell_ to have to take a break for six to eight hours to fall asleep, to turn his brain off long enough to fall asleep.

A third thing that he _hated_ was, while similar to sleep, a lot more demanding, needing to use the loo.

That was the problem at hand, at the moment, for Sherlock Holmes.

He shuffled forward a bit on the barstool, his eyes pressed against the eyepiece of his microscope. He didn't have time to use the loo- this experiment was time sensitive _and_ very unique. He couldn't take his eyes off of it for the fear of losing the reaction that he had been trying for _hours_ to get just right. The reaction, he knew, could take anywhere from two minutes to two hours, which would never bother him on a normal basis, except, right now, Sherlock's need to piss was really quite demanding. Two hours seemed like an awfully long time.

It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't pissed himself on an occasion before. He had. It had happened several times over, when he had lived alone on Montague Street, when he had been too busy with an experiment or gone to his mind palace and snapped back to attention to find himself soaking his pyjamas because he had waited too long. It wasn't a matter of control at that point- it was his body relieving itself of pressure that he could no longer hold. Sherlock didn't like it, but he had decided that he couldn't control it... not after a point.

The point hadn't arrived yet at the moment. Sherlock was fine.

It had happened at Baker Street before, too. He hadn't been able to move from an experiment- he had been analyzing of corrosive effect of fingernail polish remover on the human liver- and he had ended up losing the battle against his body.

But (and there was a major _but_ there), John hadn't been home at the time.

John was home now.

In fact, John was sitting approximately nine feet away, in the sitting room, thumbing absently through a newspaper. He was unaware of Sherlock's problem. Sherlock was keeping it that way.

Whenever his urge spiked, Sherlock shifted his weight only the slightest. No sound, barely any movement, and never any indicator that he was slowly losing control.

Losing control. It was a very foreign concept to Sherlock. Hence he was trying not to let John know what the problem was... but, given how slowly the reaction was happening underneath the microscope, John may find out, after all.

Like he had said, the point of no return had _not_ occured yet and Sherlock was hopeful that he wouldn't reach that point. His control was still in tact, as well as his pride.

However, Sherlock had made a miscalculation.

While the experiment could last two hours, Sherlock had not factored in the coffee that he had been drinking earlier. Coffee- direutic. It was coursing through his digestive system and settling painfully onto his already oversensitive bladder.

After a half hour of sitting stock-still, eyes locked on his experiment, and giving it at least another thirty minutes, Sherlock was beginning to realise that he had a real problem.

He pressed his thighs together impatiently, trying to focus. The desire to use the loo was annoying as best and distracting at worst. He never had had these inhibitions before, not when he was living alone. He didn't _want_ to piss himself at Montague, but he hadn't worried about the ramifications of it. However, with John sitting ten feet away, there was no way Sherlock would get away pissing himself without John realising. And then John would be pissed. (Not literally, like Sherlock, of course.)

Normally, at this point, Sherlock wouldn't be shy of forcing his body into an erection. It wasn't difficult; everything was oversensitive at this point and, with a few quick strokes, he'd be set for awhile longer.

Of course, John was, once again, the issue. Sherlock could _not_ give himself a hand job while John was sitting in the other room. It wasn't a matter of embarrassment- or maybe it was. But Sherlock knew that he couldn't touch himself with John sitting ten feet away. It was far too intimate an action to expect John to be alright with it.

 _But, John wouldn't notice_ , a little voice whispered in his mind.

Sherlock swallowed and pressed his legs together more firmly. He was alright. He didn't need an erection to get him through this.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock flinched delicately, licking his lips in anticipation. He had this sudden notion that John had figured out what had happened, what _was_ happening, but John could _not_ know. There was no way.

"You alright?" John asked.

Sherlock knew that John was looking at him and he focussed his attention on not shifting his weight. "Why wouldn't I be alright?" he asked. His voice was steady. Good.

"You usually don't move so much."

Sherlock winced to himself. He didn't know that he had been being so obvious. He had thought that he was silently suffering, not making it known.

"I'm fine," he said easily, although his bladder gave a particularly sharp throb to remind him _no, you're not_.

It took ten minutes for Sherlock's concentration to wane. One minute, he was frowning at the reaction under the microscope, and the next thing he knew, he was conscious of urine spilling over the tip of his penis. He clenched back the flow, clenching his teeth. No. Not now. Not yet. Just wait.

Silently berating his transport, Sherlock removed his hand from the dial on the microscope, kneading his fingers against his thigh. If he had a choice, he would be visibly holding himself, as depraving as that was, by this point. But he didn't have a choice, so he just kneaded his fingers against his thigh and coaxed his bladder with _just a few more minutes_.

'Just a few more minutes' wasn't great encouragement. Another wave of desperation crashed over Sherlock and another trickle of urine escaped. He clenched his teeth and his hand inched instinctively closer to his crotch before he stopped himself. No, Sherlock Holmes, you are not going to grab yourself with John Watson sitting in the next room!

 _He's not even_ looking _at you_ , reminded the voice.

Sherlock didn't know that for _sure_ , but he didn't feel eyes on the back of his head, so, quickly, his hand snuck to his crotch and he gave himself a brief squeeze.

The relief was instantaneous but not nearly enough and not nearly anywhere close to what he needed.

"Sherlock?"

Warmth inexplicably rushed to Sherlock's neck, but he still didn't look up. All of this would be for naught if he looked up now. "What?" he asked impatiently.

"What's wrong?" John sounded concerned. Not embarrassed; he hadn't noticed Sherlock's childish action to restrain his pent-up piss.

"Experiment's not going right," Sherlock muttered. The urge to completely piss himself silly rushed back and, this time, the trickle gained strength. He crossed his ankles and pressed his thighs together impossibly tighter.

He was going to piss himself at this rate. He was almost at _that_ point. He was going to piss himself, with his flatmate sitting, staring at him. John would be disgusted. John was going to just be... _so_ mad. He could see the reaction that would occur.

John would be embarrassed, for one, but livid because Sherlock couldn't have bothered to go to the toilet. He'd yell and call him stupid and-

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, inhaling quietly.

"Sherlock, it's not your experiment! What is it??" There was movement as John stood, footsteps coming closer.

Sherlock swallowed again, barely daring to breathe. Why did John had to walk over here? When Sherlock was so dangerously close to soaking his trousers, why did John have to join him in the kitchen where he would be able to see and _hear_ it rushing out at the inevitable moment-

He gasped quietly, a breath meant only for himself, and only just stopped himself from fisting himself again.

"Sherlock." John's voice was next to him now, concerned, worried. "Tell me."

Sherlock licked his lips and focussed his mind on the experiment again. This was strange. He was about to piss himself and John was standing over his shoulder. There was nothing for it.

"Have to piss," Sherlock said as steadily as he could, awaiting John's reaction.

He felt John go still next to him, could feel his mind working as he became embarrassed, as he tried to think of a response. John was, in all senses of the word, flabberghasted.

"Go to the toilet...!" John said, after a moment, sounding halfway between abashed and angry.

"Can't."

John seemed to tense all over again. _"What?"_

Sherlock squirmed slightly, his fingers kneading his thigh again. "I can't leave this experiment and the probability of my being able to walk to the toilet is very unlikely."

"What??"

"I have," Sherlock repeated, enunciating the words, "to piss."

Saying this aloud didn't help his predictament. Another hot rush provoked his bladder into releasing again; it wasn't a short spurt, but a longer rush of urine that left warmth soaking into his trousers.

When he instinctively grabbed himself this time, he noted with some mild interest the heat flushing to his face.

"Sher- _Go to the bathroom!_ " John said, his voice bordering angry now.

"I can't!" Sherlock retorted.

It was just then that his experiment finished. The initial response was surprise, but his lips twitched towards a smile and he removed his hand from himself to write down a note on the reaction before he finally, _finally_ , was permitted to look away.

Of course, the relief of the experiment being finished was not the relief that Sherlock needed... Not the relief that he was going to get, with or without the conscious choice.

Sherlock barely dared to look at John. The doctor was flushed crimson down to his neck, his eyes a bit panicked but mostly angry.

Angry. Angry at Sherlock.

His bladder spasmed again and the rush of urine began to trickle down his thighs. Sherlock shoved both of his hands into his crotch, bouncing his leg furiously.

"I need you to go," Sherlock said as calmly as he could manage.

"You- what??" John asked, again.

"You need to leave!" Sherlock said.

He couldn't fathom pissing himself in front of John, he just couldn't. He didn't have much pride left at this point, but he definitely had standards, and if his standards dipped to pissing himself, he didn't want anyone else to see him.

"Please," Sherlock added painfully.

"You are not pissing yourself in our kitchen!" John retorted.

Sherlock groaned, snapping his attention back to John. "Correction: I _am_ pissing myself in our kitchen, so please, go!"

Warmth flooded against his fingers and he pressed his hands more firmly. The stream wavered before increasing.

This was it.

He was pissing himself, in their kitchen, in front of John-

"John!" he gasped, as the stream turned to a river that hissed as it rushed out, soaking into his trousers and pooling around his rear. He couldn't think about moving if he tried and getting to the bathroom was out of the question. He had to piss and there was nothing for it. He just wished that John would turn away.

Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the countertop. He slowly moved his hands away and uncrossed his legs, spreading his knees slightly. The hissing grew louder as he gave into the urge that he'd been denying himself, giving way to a dripping as it travelled in rivulets down his legs and onto the floor. It was dripping in a steady stream off the barstool, too.

Sherlock heard John's intake of breath and heard him taking a step away.

Feeling mortified but relieved at the same moment, Sherlock forced his tortured muscles to relax as he completely pissed himself in the kitchen at Baker Street.

Really, this was an odd experience.

Sherlock focussed on breathing, trying to ignore the sound of his piss hitting the floor, and blinked away tears of relief when they welled in his eyes. This was mortifying, but it was nothing compared to the relief he was feeling. He was shaking by the time that the stream tapered off, and still he was voiding the last bits of his extensive amount of urine into his trousers.

It was only when he had finally voided his bladder entirely that Sherlock began to wonder what the _hell_ was going to happen now.

He didn't move for a few moments, trying to coax his heart rate into something healthy and the heat to leave his face.

Sherlock opened his eyes, casting his eyes downward to briefly access the damage. His black trousers were gleaming and there was piss puddled on the floor beneath the barstool. He raised his head and sat up straight. Normally, Sherlock always had words to remedy a situation. He couldn't find any words now.

Apparently, neither could John.

"I'll..." Sherlock started, but cleared his throat. "I'll bleach the floor," he said, much more calmly than he thought he could manage right now. "After I have a shower."

He stood, feeling the remnants of the urine pooled in his trousers rushing down his legs. The initial warmth was wearing off now, and the fabric was becoming cold and chaffing. When Sherlock chanced a glance at John, he found his flatmate more red than he had ever seen him, his eyes wide as they took in Sherlock's- soaked- form before looking away again. He was embarrassed _for_ Sherlock. Interesting.

John wasn't moving- he looked like he was in shock- and Sherlock didn't have words to make this any better, so he just picked up the roll of paper towels and started to clean up the puddle of piss that he'd created.

He had just cleaned up when John spoke. Or tried to.

"Sherlock, you-" John inhaled heartily. "Sherlock-"

"Please don't try to say something condescending, John."

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to say?" John retorted. "You just bloody well pissed yourself in our _kitchen_. Twenty feet from our _bathroom_. You're- soaked," John finished lamely, his eyes once again drifting to Sherlock.

"I am aware," Sherlock said, throwing the soiled paper towels into the bin. "I _am_ the one who just pissed himself, if you've forgotten."

"I'm pretty sure I'm not going to forget that my entire life," John muttered under his breath.

Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that graced his lips. "I'm going to have a shower," he said, starting back to the bathroom.

"Sherlock, you-"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows.

"You're... leaving a trail," John said weakly.

Sherlock glanced down, finding that he was indeed leaving footprints of urine across the floor. "Oh. Nevermind it. I'll mop later."

John stared at him before shaking his head slightly. "Wonderful. Don't make this a habit, please."

"Pissing myself? Why would I want to make it a habit?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

John's eyes very pointedly looked at Sherlock's crotch before flitting away again, crimson once again colouring his cheeks.

Sherlock knew what John's point was- Sherlock had a spectacular erection- but it hadn't been a conscious one. The relief of pissing after so long was almost as pleasurable as an orgasm. It was his body's unconscious reaction... although one that Sherlock didn't think he would ignore once in the shower.

"I do not enjoy pissing myself, John, if that's what you're worried about. Unconscious reaction. The force of my pissing combined with the pleasure of finally being able to empty my bladder resulted in my body-"

"No! _Nevermind_!" John said, holding up his hands. "I don't care." He paused. "That's not healthy, by the way. Sod the experiments; pushing yourself to these... limits is unhealthy."

Sherlock shifted his weight, resisting the urge to sigh. His clothes were uncomfortable and, coupled with the other problem he was experiencing now, he really just wanted to get in the shower. "It was necessary," he said simply.

John sighed heavily. "Please don't do it again."

"I will try to restrain my undying urge to piss on the kitchen floor," Sherlock retorted sarcastically. "Now, can I have a shower or are you going to continue to try to make idle conversation in attempts to make this less awkward?"

John flushed again. "Go."

Sherlock nodded, turning away from John. "Thank you."

Sherlock let himself into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He smiled to himself as he peeled his trousers off. Not because he'd made a spectacle of himself in the kitchen, but because he was going to make a spectacle of himself in the shower.

He told John that he didn't have a pissing kink.

He didn't... did he?

Sherlock thought about this as he got into the shower, his hand ghosting to his erection immediately. He didn't have a pissing kink. He definitely didn't.

He _did_ , however, have the most spectacular orgasm that he'd had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has been my kink for a long time. And this is the first time that I've really written anything for it. Because I think it's a perfect kink for Sherlock.
> 
> Hopefully, this isn't total rubbish... and I plan on writing more watersports because, really, I don't think there can be enough for this fandom.
> 
> All rights go to where they belong and if this idea seems similar to other stories, I can't help but think that of course Sherlock could discover this kink during an experiment... When else?


End file.
